Harry the Dirty Dog
by reenka
Summary: Draco thought Harry Potter was a dirty boy from the first time he saw him. [Pre-slash, Draco-centric]


DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

Author notes: To Chloe, who asked. Heh.

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- Harry the Dirty Dog -

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Draco thought Harry Potter was a dirty boy from the first time he saw him. He'd thought about it quite a bit afterwards, and he decided he remembered the dirt under his fingernails and the smudge on his cheek and that rumpled way his shirt had been tucked into his trousers quite clearly. Harry Potter slurred his words and didn't look at him, obviously embarrassed to show that unwashed face in front of a Malfoy. Draco felt sorry for Harry Potter immediately... or almost immediately. He realized that some people aren't born as fortunate as himself, and they needed his guidance to properly utilize their potential. That's what his mother said.

When he realized, quite a few years down the road, that _the_ Sirius Black of the Blacks had been his godfather, it all fell into place. That haggard, mopey look; the way Harry Potter's hair obscured his patched-up glasses; the criminal way he thought he could do anything and get away with it. He knew Potter bore watching from the start, but he hadn't realized just how right he was until his father told him about Black. He'd said Draco was a Black through his mother's side, and he must be very careful if he was going to avoid ending up like Harry Potter. Draco had listened with his heart beating double-time in his throat, his mouth gone dry. It was utterly impossible that he be anything like Harry Potter, but his father had looked at him meaningfully, and he knew what that came down to: Draco had to watch himself.

Draco was familiar enough with the mirror-- it told him he was a Malfoy, every day of the week that he'd spent in his room at the Manor. "Hullo, young Master Malfoy," it said in a cheerful-but-stern sort of voice. Mother had said it was his great-great-grandmother Zelphidia, the one whose statue moved whenever it was a blue moon. Draco didn't believe her about those kind of things anymore. It was just one of those things Draco knew.

The mirror had told him other things too, before he'd left for Hogwarts. It was a strange little mirror. Draco didn't think it was supposed to be quite so opinionated, but he never told anybody exactly what it said. When he'd come home after that first day in Diagon Alley, the mirror had said that he looked peaky and told him that he should march off for a spot of tea and a nap. He didn't follow that sort of advice at eleven years of age, of course. He'd crossed his arms and scowled, and the mirror had said that pouting made his mouth stick that way.

And then the mirror had asked what had gotten him so excited. Draco hadn't wanted to tell, he really didn't, but somehow he'd ended up with the words tumbling out of his mouth one after the other, without his say-so. Father was always telling him his own mouth would snap shut around him like a trap one of these days, and then he'd be sorry. But Draco was already sorry, it just didn't help.

"It does sound like this is a strange little boy. You should stay away from him if he's not your kind, young master. Someone as sensitive as yourself wouldn't do well with a bad influence at this tender age."

Draco had scoffed, but he was nervous. He was going to Hogwarts, the school for all the best witches and wizards in Britain, and if he couldn't pull his own weight, who knew what would become of him. His father wasn't going to be there. It was just going to be him, Draco, all alone. Draco had bit his lip, considering this not for the first time.

"I think... I think he didn't know anything, not even about Quidditch. I could handle his sort," he said, but he felt better having his wand in his pocket already. "I'm going to be in Slytherin," he said unnecessarily.

"Oh really?" said the mirror. "That's good. That's where you should be, young Draco."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "D'you think he liked me?" he'd said casually, not looking at himself. "I want everyone to like me." He didn't know why he'd said that. It just came out.

"If he doesn't, you have to make him like you, that's all. You have to make the right impression, young Master, and for that, you need to brush your hair more. Look at it, it's barely been an hour and it's already a mess." There was a soft feminine-sounding sigh. "I suppose you still have time to perfect your skills in that area, but I daresay you should get going. Dinner is in fifteen minutes and that's plenty of time for another run-through, you know."

"Yes, but what about the boy?"

"He sounds like a dirty boy," the mirror said repressively. "Are you sure you want that sort of company? Have you even washed your hands yet? Oh, what _am_ I going to do with you, Draco?"

Draco ignored the mirror, washing his hands thoroughly, once and then again, like he'd been taught. He sighed long-sufferingly. "Haven't you said I should stick to my kind? And haven't you said the same thing about me, over and over? Make up your mind, you stupid mirror!" He glowered at it. Draco had been perfecting his glare for awhile now, and he thought he'd been getting pretty good at it, though at the moment he looked a tad cross-eyed.

"Yes, yes. Such a temper you've got there, young Master. Though I suppose it's to be expected." The mirror sounded a bit smug there. "You _are_ a Black, aren't you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he yelled, but the mirror only snickered. "You're no help at all, that's what you are!"

"That's the way things are, Draco. It's best you learn that now; no one's going to be nice to you in Hogwarts, so you have to be prepared to play to win, if you know what I mean."

Draco frowned, not feeling very hungry anymore. "I'm not going then," he said firmly, stamping his foot. "And no one can make me! So there!"

"Oh Draco. You're a silly child, you are. You think you always get what you want, don't you. I'll have to talk to your father about that, oh yes."

"I do always get what I want," Draco screamed. "I deserve it! And I want him to like me! And he's going to like me! And that's all there is!" He had no idea why he was suddenly so forceful-- he didn't even know the stupid prat. It was the principle of the thing. He was mortified to be so forcefully reminded of his glaring weakness, standing right there in front of the mirror, snot starting to run down towards his mouth as his eyes watered.

"Shhhh, Draco, shhhhh," the mirror soothed, though that only grated on Draco's poor abused nerves even more. "You're still here, shhhh. I won't tell, don't worry... I never tell, you know that. You're a Malfoy, Draco, shhhhhhh...."

Draco's noisy sobs began to subside, and he wiped his nose thoughtlessly with his sleeve. That was true, wasn't it. He _was_ a Malfoy. It was fine, because he was a Malfoy. Of course.

"Stupid mirror," he muttered, spotting a heavy glass vase his personal house-elf had left on the marble sink. It had a silly pink flower in it. His mouth twisted in an unbecoming sneer and he grabbed it without another thought, throwing it with all his might at the awful mirror. It didn't break, being enchanted, but it got a large sparkling crack down the middle, making Draco even more enraged.

He ran to the corner of his room by the wide window onto the statue's garden, curling up inside a pile of his toys and clothes, sniffling quietly and reminding himself he was a Malfoy, and that garden would be _his_ someday, and when _he_ could do anything he liked, he'd destroy all mirrors everywhere in the whole Manor.

Draco thought that boy was dirty and he supposed that meant he didn't like him, he wasn't sure. What he _was_ sure of was that he, Draco, didn't need so much cleaning and scrubbing and stupid rules and stupid mirrors. He wasn't a Black at all. He knew who he was and what he wanted, he decided right then and there, and that meant he would always win.

His name might as well have been written all over his smooth pale skin. Draco Malfoy could be as messy as he wanted to-- it was always a matter of style.

Years later, he'd remember that time with a smidgeon of distaste-- he had been rather messy and whiny and impossible, even he could see that. He had still been a Malfoy, and no one could ever take that away from him.

He had still been right about the dirty Harry Potter, and one day Draco would show him how dirty he really was.


End file.
